Fortune Like the Moon Page 21

  ‘Did she?’ Helewise leaned back in her chair. ‘I’m not so sure. I asked the same question of that poor young man, and he said that, in return for all his protestations, she once – once! – said she thought she loved him.’

  More fool him, was Josse’s instant thought, for pursuing her so singlemindedly.

  But he didn’t say it aloud.

  ‘Her death was an accident, pure and simple,’ he said decisively after a moment. ‘I can’t think that there is any necessity for him to be arrested and put on trial, since, as I see it, there’s no question of his being responsible for her death. And, with the remains of the bloodstains under the plinth, what really happened can be proved. Do you agree, Abbess?’

  ‘Yes, Josse, indeed I do.’ It was, he noticed abstractedly, the first time she had called him simply by his given name. It was a timely moment for a move to more intimate terms between the two of them. ‘We shall have to make our reports on the two deaths to both the Church and the secular authorities, I suppose,’ she went on, ‘but, like you, I feel that there is no guilt attached to Olivar. He is innocent of blame over Gunnora’s death.’ She paused, frowning. ‘But I do not think we shall ever convince him of that.’

  ‘We must!’ he said, horrified. ‘The poor man’s life won’t be worth living, unless we do!’

  The cool grey eyes looked on him with mild pity. ‘Do you think he’ll ever find it worth living anyway, without her?’

  ‘Of course! He’s young, and she’s not worth grieving for! She—’

  ‘Every one of us is worth grieving for,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes, I know what you think of her, you who hadn’t even met her.’ He heard no reproof in her words. ‘I feel the same. She was cold, she was calculating, she used people and she was not worthy of Olivar’s love and devotion. But he thinks she was. He has waited several years to claim her, and his love seems to have grown despite the absence of any encouragement from her. Why, he hadn’t even seen her, until the night of her death, for the year or more that she had been with us here!’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Josse admitted. He stared at her. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No.’ She dropped her head into the palm of her unbandaged hand, kneading at her temple with her knuckles. ‘Not really. Not that it makes any difference.’

  ‘Does your head ache?’ he asked sympathetically.

  ‘A little.’

  He stood up, moving round to her side of the table. ‘Why not lie down?’ he suggested. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood, you’ve solved a murder that wasn’t, you’re in pain from both your hurt finger and your head. Don’t you think it’s time, my dear Abbess Helewise, to admit you’re only human, and need a good, long sleep?’

  Her head flew up at his words, and he thought she was going to tick him off for his presumption. But then, to his great surprise, she began to laugh. ‘I don’t see what’s funny,’ he said, quite offended. ‘I was only trying to help.’

  ‘Oh, Josse, I know!’ She had recovered her solemnity. ‘Between you and that old hen Euphemia, I don’t think I stand a chance of staying here at my post for the rest of the day. So I think I might just give in. I must admit, the thought of lying down somewhere quiet, with a pleasant breeze to cool me, and one of Sister Euphemia’s cold lavender compresses on my forehead, is increasingly appealing…’ She stood up, too quickly, and he caught her as she toppled.

  ‘Told you so,’ he murmured close to her wimpled and veiled ear.

  ‘I shall pretend I didn’t hear that,’ she remarked. Then, with her not inconsiderable weight leaning against him – she was, he’d noticed, broad-shouldered as well as tall – he helped her out of the room and across to the infirmary.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The coronation of Richard Plantagenet, second surviving son of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, took place in Westminster Abbey on 3 September 1189.

  The new King, Richard I of England, was five days short of his thirty-second birthday. He had been in the country for a fortnight, and, even as the day of extravagant and lengthy ceremony continued, the greater part of his able brain was thinking ahead to when he could leave again.

  Two years earlier, the Muslim leader, Saladin, had captured both Jerusalem and Acre from the Franks. Guy of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem, set about besieging his stolen territory, but it had become clear that the recapture of the Holy Sepulchre was not a task that he could do alone. Richard Plantagenet had been ready – more than ready – to go to his aid, and had taken the cross in preparation. However, the timetable of events in Outremer had not been drawn up to suit the Plantagenets; the everlasting intrigues and in-fighting between Richard, his father and his brothers continued to make it impossible for Richard to embark for the crusade in the east.

  Now that he was King, however, all that was over. Even before the crown was on his head, he had demanded a muster of ships. And, across the Channel, his companion-in-arms, friend and ally, Philip Augustus of France, was waiting …

  Henry II’s thirty-five years on the throne had left England sound. Unlike his son and heir, he had involved himself in all aspects of good government, and had managed to achieve that remarkable feat of integration simply because he had intelligent, informed help. His small group of administrators had shared with him the aim of making the country strong. And solvent: when Henry died, he left a substantial sum, rumoured to be in the region of 100,000 marks, in the Treasury.

  Richard’s magnificent coronation nibbled away at quite a lot of that. But, nevertheless, the remainder would have been a more than adequate inheritance for most kings.

  Kings, that is, who were not champing at the bit with impatience to go off to war.

  The raising of revenue was Richard’s sole, driving purpose. His new kingdom, which he hardly knew, was no more to him than a vast bank, where, happily, his credit appeared to be good. Whether or not his demands were acceptable to his new people, whether, even, the majority of his subjects shared his fanatical determination that the Holy Land must be wrested out of infidel hands, were matters of supreme indifference to him. The important thing was to raise as much money as he could, as quickly as he could; he once joked that he would sell London if he could find a buyer.

  Quite a lot of people didn’t realise it was a joke.

  In those hectic days of the new reign, it seemed that everything was for sale. Not even the highest in the land were exempt from demands; Henry’s able and loyal advisors were made to pay heavily for the dubious privilege of the new King’s goodwill. And, lower down in the establishment hierarchy, officials were thrown out of office to make room for incumbents who paid for their new appointments. Anyone whose money was a burden to him, went the ironic saying, was relieved of it; it was possible, at this extraordinary, country-wide market, to buy privileges, lordships, earldoms, sheriffdoms, castles, even towns; human nature being what it is, there were plenty of people more than ready to advance themselves the quick way, via their wealth, instead of the more noble but painstaking route of via their worth.

  Richard achieved his immediate goal; money flowed into his crusade fund like the great Thames through his new capital. But at what price?

  * * *

  Josse d’Acquin had duly reported back to the King concerning the deaths at Hawkenlye Abbey, although the King, understandably, perhaps, did not appear to remember who Josse was or what he was talking about; Josse happened to catch him during the time in mid-August when, freshly arrived in his new kingdom, he was re-acquainting himself with a country and a people he hadn’t seen since early childhood.

  ‘Hawkenlye?’ he had said, when, at long last, Josse had managed to shoulder his way to the front of the queue of men eager for the new King’s ear. ‘Hawkenlye? A dead nun?’

  Josse reminded him of the salient facts. Down on one knee, head bent in respect, his words were drowned by the general commotion all around; Richard’s peripatetic court was settling itself into its new abode with characteristic, noisy exuberance.

  He felt strong hands
grasp his shoulders, and the King hauled him to his feet. ‘Stand up, man, and talk so that I can hear you!’ he bellowed impatiently. ‘What’s all this about released murderers?’

  He recounted his story again, and this time light dawned on the King. ‘Ah, yes, the abbey full of women, where the miracle spring was discovered!’ he exclaimed. ‘Indeed, Sir John—’

  ‘Josse,’ Josse murmured.

  ‘I think I do recall…’ Richard frowned thunderously at Josse, as if trying to draw intelligence from him.

  But, just then, Richard’s chief advisor, William de Longchamps, sidled up to the King and, standing on tiptoe, for he was a good head shorter than his sovereign, began to speak urgently and quietly in the King’s ear.

  Josse waited for the King to dismiss him, tell him to wait his turn; there was already resentment of the favoured position occupied by Longchamps, who, people were saying, the King was going to appoint as Chancellor. And the man was the son of runaway serfs!

  But Richard did not dismiss him. Instead, with a wave of the regal hand, he dismissed Josse.

  Walking away, too irritated to show the fawning respect that the occasion demanded, Josse was surprised, on reaching the outer chamber, to feel a detaining hand on his arm.

  It was William de Longchamps.

  ‘I know of your business here, Josse d’Acquin,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I will see to it that the King hears of your success.’

  Josse was on the point of saying he’d manage very well on his own, without anyone’s help, when he reconsidered.

  Would it do any harm, really, to have the support of the man tipped to be England’s next chancellor? No! Hardly!

  And so what if the man wasn’t of noble birth? Looking down at him, Josse did have to admit that the man didn’t look a likely candidate for the dignity of high office. Still, he thought fairly, if any man were to trace his lineage back far enough, he’d probably come down to peasant origins.

  And that included the King; hadn’t his illustrious forefather, William the Conqueror, been the bastard son of a tanner’s daughter?

  ‘I thank you, Sir,’ he said, making Longchamps a courteous bow. He hesitated; should he go on to tell Longchamps the outcome of his investigation? Yes, he decided. ‘I sensed all along that the first death was somehow a family matter,’ he began, ‘but—’

  Longchamps put up a hand. ‘No need, Sir Josse, for this.’ He smiled faintly. ‘The tale is already known to me.’

  ‘How?’ Josse asked.

  Longchamps seemed to grow suddenly taller; not by very much, but, in his case, every little helped. ‘My Lady the Queen told me,’ he said.

  ‘Queen Eleanor?’

  ‘Have we another queen?’ Longchamps said, somewhat wryly.

  ‘Oh. No, no.’ Queen Eleanor? Had she, bless her, troubled to follow up the matter? With everything else that must be on her mind at present, had she remembered this small provincial matter, unimportant, surely, as soon as it was clear that the perpetrator was not a prisoner released by her son’s clemency?

  She had. She must have done.

  ‘I am indebted to Her Majesty,’ he said, bowing as deeply as if it were Eleanor herself who stood before him.

  ‘As are we all,’ murmured Longchamps, ‘as are we all.’

  Then, with a curt nod in Josse’s general direction, he scurried off back to the King.

  * * *

  Josse had expected to hear no more from either Longchamps or the King. But he had been wrong.

  A little while later, he received word that he was summoned to the new King’s coronation.

  * * *

  There were, Josse was wont to say afterwards, some distinctly odd aspects to the coronation of Richard I. Not that he was an expert on coronations, this being the only one he attended in his long life. But still, it made, he thought, a good opening to his oft-repeated account.

  The first strange happening was that, for all that it was broad daylight, a bat was seen to come flapping and flitting into Westminster Abbey. Bold as you please, it did not content itself with a discreet circuit of the darkest recesses of the great building, but flew straight up the nave. Eventually, it found the sacred spot where the King-elect sat, stiff-backed, extravagantly robed, mystic symbols of monarchy in his hands. And there, around and around the noble brow, it continued to circle, until one of the presiding prelates came out of his pop-eyed trance and, flapping at the bat with his wide sleeves in a manner that threatened to make the small creature produce an unsavoury testimony to its fear, managed to shoo it away.

  ‘A bat!’ came the horrified whispers, buzzing around Josse like the gossiping of women at the well. ‘It’s an omen! A terrible omen!’

  Against his will – damn it, the bat was just a wild animal, neither good nor evil! – Josse found himself thinking of the words of Leviticus: all flying, creeping things, going about upon all four, shall be an abomination unto you.

  God had said that, of one of His own creatures! A thing of the night, of the dark, of secret places, and an abomination unto the Lord …

  In the Abbey, there was a disjointed, quiet muttering, growing in volume, as, on all sides, men tried to mitigate the potency of this evil omen by a few repetitions of the Paternoster.

  With which, despite his attempts at rationality, Josse joined in.

  * * *

  There was no special place for Queen Eleanor at the long Westminster Abbey ceremony; she did not go. Which was, Josse considered, the other peculiar thing about King Richard’s coronation.

  They said she had refused to attend because she was in mourning for her husband, the dead King Henry.

  In mourning?

  Technically she was, Josse had to acknowledge; Henry had only died a couple of months ago. But everyone knew how the Queen had felt about him! Why, he’d had her shut up, a prisoner in her own house, for the last sixteen years! They hated each other, and, for her part, she must have been delighted to see the back of him.

  And, as well, Eleanor had worked so relentlessly for her son’s sake. Why, it was said she hadn’t had a day’s rest for the last few weeks, so determined had she been to leave no stone unturned in her efforts to make England welcome the new King. Was it not unexpected, to say the least, for her not to attend what was, literally, her son’s crowning moment?

  But, whatever the true reason was, Eleanor was not there.

  Nor, Josse had noticed with growing amazement as he stared around the assembled multitude, was any other woman.

  Richard’s coronation was attended only by men.

  Well, he thought, rationalising again, it’s the men who hold the reins of power, why should Richard not summon them without their wives? And, perhaps, the King had thought that if his own mother declined to see him crowned, then no other woman in the realm ought to have that privilege.

  Josse couldn’t help wondering what Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye would have said to that.

  * * *

  A week or so after the coronation – it had taken almost that long to get rid of the hangover; one thing you could say for King Richard, he certainly knew how to throw a party – Josse made his way home to Acquin.

  There would inevitably be a sense of anticlimax in returning to his rural backwater after the various excitements; he had known that, and had prepared himself for it. Or so he thought. Indeed, as he crossed the Aa river and set his tired horse’s head along the valley for home, he was actually looking forward to the peace.

  The long, low roofs of the great courtyard appeared in the distance, the flint-slated tops of the watch towers on the two outer corners catching the rays of the westering sun and seeming to glisten. In the pastures either side of the little river, large cows grazed, the tearing sound of their mouths pulling on grass loud in the tranquillity. One or two groups of peasants, trudging heavy-footed homewards, nodded to him, some, recognising who he was, tugging a respectful forelock.

  Home.

  He encouraged his horse to a reluctant trot as he entered
the tiny village that had sprung up around the spreading manor house. Past the church, along the track that led to the gates … and he was there.

  The gates were closed; fair enough, it was almost dusk, and nobody knew he was coming. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a slight sense of rejection.

  He leaned sideways in the saddle and thumped with his fist on the stout, iron-banded doors. ‘Open up! Open up, Acquin!’

  After quite a lot more banging, a small aperture beside the gates opened, and he saw the cross face of his senior steward. ‘Whadyouwant?’ the man shouted, all in one word.

  Then, seeing who it was, he reddened, muttered an apology, and closed the little window; very soon afterwards, the main doors opened. Between the one action and the other, Josse had heard him call out, in a tone not as full of joy as Josse might have expected, ‘It’s Sir Josse! The Master’s come home.’

  They welcomed him warmly enough, his brothers, his brothers’ wives, his nephews, his nieces; at least, those among the children who were old enough welcomed him. The babies still at the breast took little notice. There being no fatted calf to hand, they fed him on tasty fowl and well-hung game, and his brother Yves broached a barrel of wine which he said he had been saving for just such a special occasion.

  They listened politely to what Josse had to tell them of life with Richard Plantagenet, went ‘Ooh!’, ‘Aah!’ and ‘Fancy that!’ in all the right places, were suitably horrified at the deaths in the Abbey and were diplomatically reserved about the new King’s determination to bleed his new realm of all – possibly of more than – it could afford in order to go galloping off to the Holy Land and boot out the infidel.

  But Josse noticed that, the moment he had finished describing some exciting piece of news, that would be that. He was lucky if he got one interested question before the talk turned to other matters. To the harvest. The field down by the river that always flooded when it rained hard. The spotted cow’s sickly calf. The prospects of a good autumn’s hunting. The second-youngest brother’s broken ankle, the senior sister-in-law’s mad mother, even, God help them, the priest’s haemorrhoids and the youngest-but-one baby’s spasmodically tarry stools.